


when you look at me

by ayuminb



Series: Jonsa Kink Week [1]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: (except not really oops), Alternate Universe - Book/Show Mix, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Ambiguous Jon Snow, Ambiguous Sansa Stark, F/M, Jonsa Kink Week, Porn With Plot, Porn with Feelings, The Sin is Too Real, public bedding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-01
Updated: 2018-02-01
Packaged: 2019-03-12 04:46:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,736
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13539963
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ayuminb/pseuds/ayuminb
Summary: An union by marriage is, however, something that makes sense – and Sansa, she is as desperate to cling to what remains of her family as Jon is.





	when you look at me

Jon had rejected her.

 

He’d resisted all attempts from the Dragon Queen to make him bend the knee, had resisted her attempts to create a bond of friendship and shared experiences – and then Jon had rejected her proposal of an union between North and South, between Jon and Daenerys herself.

 

He’d rejected her even _more_ vehemently upon learning of his true parentage. Even more _violently_ when she’d come up to him, in the middle of Winterfell’s Great Hall, and said they should do as their ancestors before them did and wed each other to keep the Targaryen bloodline pure.

 

Make it _stronger_.

 

To say Daenerys had been shocked by Jon’s reaction is an understatement. Everyone had been shocked, except Sansa, who’d come to know him better than anyone within the halls of Winterfell now.

 

An union by marriage is, however, something that makes _sense_ – and _Sansa_ , she is as desperate to cling to what remains of her family as Jon is; the brother-turned-cousin according to Bran. So she throws the Dragon Queen’s words back at her, proposes an alliance that makes the northerners breathe easier, that will also allow her to keep her people free of southron rulers. Their hard-earned independence; the one that’s splayed all _over_ her back.

 

Jon does not reject _her_ and she dares to hope that would be the end of it, the agreement enough for them all.

 

Except Daenerys Targaryen demands the wedding to happen before their armies are to leave for the Great War, _demands_ the bedding to be a public affair as, given their previous relationship as brother and sister, she cannot be sure if they would even consummate their union. Sansa bristles, bites her tongue not to snap at her – oh, she knows it is a valid concern, she’s not so naive anymore. Even when she is a maid still, she knows blood in her sheets will not necessarily mean her maidenhead has broken; a cut, they might argue, one of them made a cut _somewhere_.

 

Jon begins to rear up for another confrontation; one Sansa knows is exactly what the Dragon Queen wants. It takes her but a moment to realize what this is about. _I see_ , she thinks, straightens up her back, _I will not be cowed. If she wants a show, I’ll give it to her._

 

“Very well,” her voice carries over the angry whispers. “A public bedding will do; anything to ensure a strong alliance. I assume you’ll want to be present for it, Your Grace?”

 

Truly, it is all she can do to keep the venom at bay.

 

Daenerys’ expression closes off, but she nods. “And two others – one of my choosing. You may choose the last from among your people, _Your Grace_.”

 

Jon turns to look at her in shock—but it’s the heat lurking carefully hidden underneath that tells her _all_ she needs to know. He’s not really opposed to this. Sansa smiles, more for his benefit that for any other reason.

 

“Name the one you choose.”

 

“The Hand of the Queen, Lord Tyrion Lannister.”

 

As she’d expected. If the Dragon Queen wants her to waver, she truly knows nothing about the mettle of them northerners. Lord Tyrion shifts uncomfortably, not able to meet her eyes, but nods to his Queen.

 

“Very well. I choose Tormund Giantsbane.”

 

He is, Sansa’s sure, the only one who will not make her feel uncomfortable in the aftermath of the bedding. He’s probably accustomed to it, if Jon’s tales about his time spent among the free folk are true.

 

The wild man booms out a hearty laugh, nods to her, and then addresses Jon. “Guess I’ll be witness to another of your attempts to rut, Snow! Let’s hope you do better this time!”

 

There comes _another_ ripple among those present, this time of tentative humor, still unsure of what’s to come, but overall better than the resentment she’d detected moments before.

 

Daenerys doesn’t _like_ it, if the downward twist of her mouth is anything to go by, likes it even less when she pierces Jon with a hard glare as he’s yet to refuse any of this. Oh but her dear brother— _cousin_ , her dear cousin, is far too eager about the prospect of bedding her to care much about the rest. Not that anyone actually knows that, _Sansa_ shouldn’t know that. But she’s learned how to read people and for all his stoicism, Jon is ridiculously easy to read at times.

 

“The sooner the better, I say.”

 

And that is all there is to it.

 

*****

 

No one knows – it is not an unpleasant thing to do, _this_ , not with Jon. No one knows how she’s yearned for this, for her brother— _cousin_ , for her cousin.

 

Now they’ve been wedded for the sake of an alliance and will be bedded in public to appease a Queen who’d wanted yet another man falling to his knees for her. She’s only aware of the end of the small feast because of the sudden movement of having someone lift her up onto someone’s shoulder, and hands tearing as her gown not long after.

 

“Have some respect! She’s your Queen!”

 

It is Tormund’s shoulders where she sits upon now, and he’s the one to wave Jon’s worries away. “Aye, aye! Don’t worry, Snow! Nothing bad will happen to her, we don’t want her frightened!”

 

He does end up punching more than one of Daenerys’ Dothraki riders when they try to become too handsy.

 

Jon’s already waiting for her in the Lord’s chambers—though, she supposes it’s _Queen’s_ chambers, now, _her own_ chambers—down to his smallclothes. His expression is a blank canvas to those who’ve not the luck of knowing him; not to her, not even to Tormund it seems now. The giant of a man laughs heartily, promptly dropping her onto Jon’s arms and giving her rump a slap for good measure.

 

“The Queen’s a maid, King Snow,” the title is said with a hint of good-natured jest, “so best get her as slick as a baby seal before your cock goes anywhere near her, you hear?”

 

“I know how to do it,” he might as well snap, but there’s a hint of pink in the tip of his ears.

 

“I’m sure you think so!”

 

Tormund gives Jon a slap on _his_ rump before moving to sit on one of the chairs placed near the foot of the bed, slumps really, relaxed and jolly, the only one truly enjoying this. And Sansa – she’s suddenly glad she’d chosen him. Daenerys and Lord Tyrion come in at last, silently taking their places, with the Dragon Queen sitting in the middle.

 

She gives them a sharp nod, to which Sansa arches an eyebrow in response. Jon does nothing but glare at her, at Lord Tyrion who cannot hold his gaze for much longer, before turning to her. She smiles at him, small but genuine, trails a finger along his jaw.

 

“It’s alright, Jon, just look at me,” she whispers and a smile flickers across his face at that, leans closer to place a kiss to his cheek then presses her lips to his ear. “Go on and fuck me, King Snow.”

 

He swallows, pupils rapidly dilate is his sole reaction; he drops her onto the furs of her bed.

 

“Should I undress my bride?”

 

A question aimed at Daenerys, along with a petulant glare.

 

“Yes!”

 

“No!”

 

Sansa spares a glance at their audience, watches as Tormund frowns at Lord Tyrion, who avert his gaze with a contrite expression on his face.

 

“Why’d they keep their clothes? What kind o’ kneeler shit’s _that_?”

 

She has to turn away to keep from laughing; Sansa tilts her head at her new husband then, feeling vindictive in what she’s about to say. “You should.”

 

“As Her Grace says, just get on with it.”

 

Daenerys doesn’t seem to be enjoying the consequences of her own demands; Sansa wonders if it’s bad of her to feel a sliver of satisfaction for it.

 

“Bullshit! Take your time, Snow!”

 

He does just that. Jon locks his grey eyes on her and everything around them seems to fade slowly; he asks permission, a soft murmur to take off her silk shift, which she grants. His gaze seems to burn a path as it moves down her body; Jon closes his hands on the collar of her shift – and pulls, _hard_. The sound of tearing fabric echoes all around them, it sends heat spiraling throughout her body.

 

The moan tumbles past her lips unexpectedly.

 

Jon stares at her heaving chest, licks his lips, and then urges on her back to pull off her torn garment fully. He removes her smallclothes and his and Sansa shudders when he moves to lay atop her. _This can’t be it_ , she thinks, some of the thing she’d hear over the shouts while she was being carried here hint to so _much_ more, _there must be more to this._ And there is; Jon kisses her forehead, a last show of tender affection.

 

“I’ll make this good.”

 

Oh, and he _does_.

 

*****

 

A kiss that robs her of the very air in her lungs, scatters her thoughts into an endless void. Jon nips at her lips and sucks and pulls and pushes into the kiss until she’s left panting, gasping for breath. He moves to leave a scorching path down her neck, marking her skin along the way. The hand not holding up his weigth fondles her chest; kneading the plump flesh, stroking his thumb over her nipple before pinching them slightly. Tweaking, pulling and when his mouth finally closes around the unattended one, evoking sensations she’s sure must be the highest point of pleasure.

 

Sansa is _wrong_. Toes curling, she’s quick to discover this might only be the beginning – Jon switches places with his hand, laving attention to the other breast, swirling his tongue around her nipple before sucking it too. The light scrap of his teeth have her threading the fingers of one hand through his hair, gripping it tightly but undecided if she should pull him away or closer still.

 

_Closer, closer._

 

Jon gives her one last, hard suck before following a path further down. It leaves her _confused_ , she’d liked what he had done, wanted more of it; she doesn’t get to ask, because the bubble of privacy they’d managed to create bursts then, by a string of cheery words and encouragements. Tormund’s is the only voice she hears, and she spares a glance to see if the others remain where they should be – they do.

 

“Gotta get a taste of that cunt now, you lucky bastard!”

 

A loud guffaw follows that word, takes the sting out of it. Her attention is forced back onto Jon, _her Jon_ , who’s shouldering her thighs apart, hooking one leg over his one shoulder in such a way that the view of her most private part remained _private_ still, and then he looks up at her—and then he smirks.

 

_Taste?_

 

Her breath _catches_ in her throat at the first slow glide of his tongue through her folds, is squirming at the intense sensations at the second. The third stroke has his tongue hitting that glorious spot that she’s learned gives her the _most_ pleasure – Jon seems to know it well, he focuses on it with an eagerness that has her vision going white and her back arching off the bed. He keeps licking and sucking and, Gods _above_ , humming; moans and whimpers can be heard distantly—sounds that are coming from _her_.

 

“Jon…!”

 

Muscles coiled, pulled taut with the mounting pressure, Sansa is vaguely aware of the hand pulling at his hair or the way she rocks her hips into his eager mouth. Further still, she can hear boisterous laughter, and then no _more_ – Jon pushes two fingers into her, a tight fit, but then curls them in and she’s flying. Unraveling at the seams and falling, falling, _crashing_ through the haze.

 

Belatedly, she’ll realize she nearly trapped Jon between her legs. For now, she tugs at his curls until he’s climbing up her sweaty and sated body and kisses him with all the enthusiasm she can muster. That was _good_ , she wants to say, but still riding her peak, Jon settles between her spread thighs and slides into her with a swift thrust.

 

“Fuck.”

 

Her soft sigh gets lost under his own rasping curse.

 

Vaguely, Sansa thinks, it doesn’t hurt. She’d expected pain at the breaking of her maidenhead, as she’d been told to. But there is none, and still, Jon remains unmoving atop her; cheeks ablaze, she lifts her knees a tad more, allowing her legs to fall further apart and Jon to sink even _deeper_ – he groans, grinds into her once, before hooking his arm under her left knee, pulling it higher still.

 

“Jon,” she moans, meets his next shallow thrust.

 

Intense, it’s the only word that comes to mind, close enough to describe how she feels. Pulling and pushing, the in and out slide of his cock feels odd for the most part until it begins to build the tension back up. It doesn’t _hurt_ , but Sansa can tell, by the slight tremble of Jon’s body above hers, his ragged breath against her neck and the moans that spill past his lips – he’s certainly enjoying this _more_ than she.

 

Then comes a sudden snap of his hips, a broken rendition of her name against her skin, another hard thrust and jolt that dislodges a whimper from her throat. Jon takes up a hard and fast pace, the hand holding her hip digging its fingers into her flesh, the other pushes onto her knee until it rests flat on the furs. His movements start breaking its rhythm and that’s when he whispers:

 

“I’ll make this better.”

 

Sansa shudders, almost violently, silently questioning how _could_ _it_ get any better – Jon nudges her head to the side, her eyes land in their forgotten audience. _By me_ , she realizes, _forgotten by me, Jon hasn’t—oh_. There’s a tankard in Tormund’s hand, which he uses to salute her when their eyes meet briefly; the giant of a man is utterly relaxed on his chair, enjoying the show. Next to him Daenerys looks like she’s about to burst into flames—she gasps, Jon moves his mouth to her chest, bites gently at her nipples—and next to the Dragon Queen, Lord Tyrion cannot seem to be able to gaze at them for long.

 

Briefly, she wonders if it is because of their unconsummated marriage, the _awkwardness_ – wonders why she feels _none_ of it, gets her answer when her cousin releases her nipple with a popping sound. Her body shakes, Jon inches back up to press a kiss to a spot under her ear, slowing down his thrusts.

 

“Sansa,” the way he says her _name_ – sets her cunt fluttering, “you like this.”

 

Her breath hitches, she can feel the smirk pulling at the corners of his lips and then—

 

“Good.”

 

—he sits up, tugs the leg that’d remained around his waist up, and up, up, _up_ until her calf rests onto his shoulder. Sansa feels him go deeper, swears her world threatens to black out, she’s so very _close_ , but Jon, he grabs one of her hands, brings it to his mouth and sucks two of her fingers. Smirk still in place, he encourages her to bring herself pleasure while he straddles her thigh.

 

“Sansa,” he says, soft and rumbling and sinful, “peak for _me_.”

 

It’s the sudden realization of being fully exposed to their audience – body angled towards them, legs spread wide allowing a perfect view of her husband’s cock going in and out. It’s the damn _smirk_ and absolute desire burning in his eyes; it’s the rough timbre of his voice, it’s _Jon_ that pushes her over the edge.

 

Heat washes over her, all-encompassing, dulling her senses to all that which is not Jon; back arching once again, her hands can’t reach him so grab at the furs, her moans tumble past her lips, loud and mostly incoherent sounds unless it’s his name being repeated like a _goddamned_ prayer. He grunts, groans, collapses onto her in a mess of shaking limbs as his seed spills into her womb.

 

Then the quiet envelops them; then it’s harshly broken.

 

And they turn to their audience in time to see the seething form of Daenerys Targaryen storming out of the bedchamber.


End file.
